


Chicken

by OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Somehow Worse at Feelings (Good Omens), First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), and the intended acquisition of a cottage for you and the angel you've been pining for, did i really write a 3k+ fic for a prompt about chickens?, unwanted acquisition of a rather annoying pet, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23548144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: Crowley comes to terms that Aziraphale, to his horror, might actually love him back. He's forced to deal with it through a little help.It appeared one day, out of the cold, grey sky, right in his apartment.A chicken.(“It’s a rooster, Crowley, just look at its lovely comb!” “You’re telling me it’s a cock, angel. But it looks more like a prick if you ask me.”)And it refused to leave Crowley alone.The worst part? It’s completely smitten with Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 189





	Chicken

Crowley’s very cautious and very wary about their newfound freedom, what with upstairs and downstairs leaving them to their own devices for the first time. He’s torn between savoring and basking in Aziraphale’s time and attention without the constant need to look over their shoulders or assuage the angel’s fears about being seen together–

But also has a tentative anxiety bubbling up inside him. He knows how he feels. He’s felt it since the wall of the Garden and had known its name since Rome.

He loves Aziraphale.

_Desperately._

But every time he’s come close to prying those feelings out into the open, Aziraphale (quite panickily and abruptly) denies, denies, _denies_.

And Crowley understands. He always does and he will always go at Aziraphale’s pace. He never wants to be the one to spook the angel away from him for good. Sure, Aziraphale always comes back into his life one way or another, but after all this time–

He’s not sure if he’s ready to have his heart thrown back at his face again. Not when there’s literally nothing stopping them from being _more_ other than Aziraphale himself.

And then _it_ appeared. One day, out of the cold, grey sky, right in his apartment. 

A chicken. 

(“It’s a _rooster_ , Crowley, just look at its lovely comb!” “You’re telling me it’s a cock, angel. But it looks more like a prick if you ask me.”) 

And it refused to leave Crowley alone.

Crowley knows it’s some kind of Satanic punishment from downstairs. No matter what he does, no matter how many crashes he makes at the M25 to make it lose chase, the bloody thing _won’t_ go away.

And the worst part?

It’s completely _smitten_ with Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, naturally, is delighted with its presence in return.

Crowley warns him against getting too close to it; downstairs might be trying to spy on them through its beady little chicken eyes.

Aziraphale chides him and says that the chicken doesn’t even _feel_ evil. Not a whiff of fire and brimstone on it. Meanwhile, the chicken– _rooster_ – is more than content to make a nuisance of itself in Aziraphale’s bookstore while Crowley visits.

Naturally, it makes itself right at home on Crowley’s favorite sofa.

“I could roast it in some fire and brimstone,” Crowley mutters, ignoring the high-pitched squawk that follows. “That’ll teach it.”

The chicken also does this unnerving and completely annoying thing where if Crowley’s silently admiring the angel– something he’s done for millennia with or without the glasses– it would do these soft little peeps and trills that completely ruins his angel-watching when said angel would look up from his book and coo at the nasty little bird.

The thing almost looks smug.

“You’re not jealous are you dear?” Aziraphale asked him once after the third– no fourth– time.

 _Yes._ “Of what? Being the colonel’s next victim? ‘fraid not, angel.”

The bloody thing started _crowing_ obnoxiously at that, fluttering restlessly.

“Oh dear, I think you’ve offended it.”

“Good. The feeling’s mutual.”

* * *

Crowley adjusts. Or at least, he does somewhat.

It becomes routine: wake up to the incessant clucking, make a spot of trouble out of habit, and saunter his way over to the angel’s bookshop, the fluttering thing in tow. There, it spends the day nestled either in his favorite spot on the couch–

–or the _Worse_ alternative: nesting itself right there in the angel’s soft, plush lap.

Crowley feels a twinge of envy before deciding it was too embarrassing to be jealous of a _chicken_ of all things. Still, he feels the need to at least warn Aziraphale: “Careful there, angel. Wouldn’t want bird shit all over those ancient trousers, would you?”

To which Aziraphale rolls his eyes and pats the chicken adoringly on the head. “You wouldn’t do that, would you little dear?”

The thing would chirp sweetly and Crowley’s mood sours even further. Fine. The damn thing can _have_ the sofa.

And when it gets late and the emptied bottle of wine makes all sorts of strange and funny suggestions in his head and makes Aziraphale’s cheeks redden so prettily, Crowley decides it’s best to go before–

–before…he’s not sure. 

Before he does something he regrets, he supposes, now that the alcohol has been (unpleasantly) miracled out of his system. So with that, he bids Aziraphale farewell for the night.

The chicken is squawking again and Crowley’s not sure why but all he knows is that it’s much more tolerable now that he’s sober.

It’s a great distraction, all things considering. Distracts him from important questions that he _should_ be focusing on.

Like whether or not Aziraphale has been making subtle advances at him: like asking Crowley to stay longer if he’d like, sitting closer to him, touching him more regularly.

Crowley knows he’s being– skittish. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining these things or if Aziraphale even knows what he’s doing. Maybe for Aziraphale, these are friendly things that he’s only now indulging in. Crowley knows how cold and sterile heaven is now; they’re not known for their soft and friendly comforts.

And Crowley should feel honored that he wants these things from him. Feels that Crowley trustworthy and Aziraphale is comfortable enough to ask these things from him.

And Crowley _is_ –

But he _wants_ more. Wants it with such a frightening intensity. 

In a way, he’s almost grateful for the clucking nightmare. Its drawn Aziraphale’s attentions away from…whatever it is he’s trying to do. 

Crowley knows he can’t put it off forever– nor does he want to. He’s just…not sure he’s ready to yet.

* * *

He certainly isn’t ready that night, after they spent a rather lovely day that ended rather disastrously.

He can’t say for certain whether it was the wine, the stories, or the memories they shared; it could have been the laughs, the smiles, the closeness too. But two things were certain of that night: Crowley got ahead of himself and he nearly kissed Aziraphale square on his lovely mouth. 

(nearly.)

And the thought– the very possibility that Aziraphale would push him away after doing so– scared him so much that he wrenched himself away almost violently

(and in doing so, completely missed the heart broken and frustrated look on Aziraphale’s face).

He left in a daze, the sound of angry clucking following, haunting him all the way home. 

* * *

Crowley spends the next month holed up in his apartment, definitely not avoiding Aziraphale or anything (“Shut _UP_ you _BLOODY BIRD_ ”) but catching up on some much-needed sleep after the whole apocalypse-mess.

He’s left a voice mail on his answering machine for Aziraphale to hear– to know that this isn’t forever– but only until he could…figure things out.

Figure himself out.

And _maybe when he gets this bloody chicken off his back–_

But the answering machine stays silent.

* * *

A month later with little to no progress in ‘figuring things out’, he comes back into Aziraphale’s shop, an apology on his tongue that he hopes is just the right amount of nonchalant that they can brush this entire fiasco under the rug.

The bloody chicken is there, as usual, and does his same song and dance of darting off to exactly where the angel has buried himself away in his books.

Aziraphale is surprised to see him and looks– nervous. Unsure. He gives Crowley a relieved smile and Crowley hopes that their many millennia of friendship can survive what almost happened weeks ago.

Crowley apologizes, but before he could finish anything past “Sorry for–” Aziraphale shakes his head, a patient understanding in his eyes that makes Crowley’s chest ache terribly.

* * *

Things are relatively back to normal.

Relatively.

And Crowley doesn’t mean “a month ago” normal–

He means 100 years-ago “back to normal.”

Aziraphale keeps his distance; there’s no more touching, no more closeness, and their meetings are cut short. There are no more offers for luxurious bottles of wine back at his shop and there are no more requests to stay longer.

Another thing that unfortunately _doesn’t_ change is the way the chicken squawks in protest every time Crowley nods and takes his leave.

“Bloody thing,” he spits as it settles into the passenger seat in the Bentley. “If you like him so much, why don’t you stay with him?”

He can’t see the bird from his rearview mirror, but what he can see is his own question staring back at him.

* * *

Crowley tells himself it will be fine. That Aziraphale will be fine too. They’ll get through this like they always have and it’s not like his best friend is pushing him away anymore.

There’s just some. Distance in between. That’s all.

There’s _always_ been some distance. Crowley always went too fast for him and–

–and maybe the angel had gone too fast for him in return.

There’s a tiny hope that buds in his chest at that, but it’s torn from its roots when he comes by the next morning to a quiet bookshop and a note on Aziraphale’s desk addressed to him.

Crowley reads it. Reads it over and over again but the words don’t quite sink in and the meaning doesn’t quite fully reach him until he has a chicken panicking about the bookshop like its head had just been lobbed off.

_Crowley,_

_Dreadfully sorry to leave without saying goodbye. I promise I won’t be long, dear fellow, but I need some time to myself. I’m also sorry for the way I’ve acted and I hope you’ll forgive me for crossing a line. I thought– well. It doesn’t matter what I thought, really. All I know is that I’ve wronged you and I’m deeply sorry. The next time you see me, it is my promise that I will act appropriately._

_It is also my hope that things will be right as rain between us once again._

_Yours, always,_

_Aziraphale_

((He’s in France right now; Paris, to be exact. Crowley knows this with every fiber of his being and he can’t bring himself to miracle his way over there or take the first flight, train, coach to the angel and he hates himself almost as much as he hates the way that _BLASTED BIRD_ is crying in the empty shop.))

* * *

Crowley doesn’t know how long he’s been in the empty bookshop; just him and the bloody chicken

(It’s a lie; he’s been there 43 days in counting and still no sign of the angel.)

Truth be told, he’s not sure when the angel would be there, and if he were to suddenly appear, what Crowley could possibly say to him.

“It’s not you, it’s me?” Yeah, _real_ classy Crowley.

“I would have totally snogged the living daylights outta you if I knew it was what you wanted” Crass, but getting closer.

“I’ve loved you for so long and believed for so long that you’d never let yourself feel the same way that the thought of you actually reciprocating terrifies me like nothing else?” Too honest.

He looks over to the bird, making itself a nest out of the sparse articles of clothing that still holds Aziraphale’s scent, clucking sadly as it’d been for the past 2 and a half months.

It misses Aziraphale; just misses being close to him.

 _Stupid thing,_ Crowley thinks as he leans back on Aziraphale’s reading chair, the note still clutched in his hand. “You love him too, don’t you?”

He’s only greeted with silence as the bird cozies itself up to a forgotten 19th century coat.

* * *

It takes maybe a week more before Crowley literally slaps himself out of his stupor and starts preparations.

He was always rubbish with words, maybe almost as much so with physical affection–

But if there’s one thing he knows, it’s how get a point across with actions.

His angel’s library is vast, but he knows every book from novella to tome in its walls, and he knows for certain which are his angel’s favorites. He also knows that there are wards and miracles keeping all manner of riffraff and thieves from making off with his angel’s precious books, but he knows the shop, the angel, trusts him with its dearest contents.

He uses this trust to make off with a few priceless books and a few angelwing mugs. 

From there, he goes to his flat and gathers only his finest plants, the ones who’ve disappointed him _least_ and packs a few fashionable contents, gets into his car–

and drives.

((No, not to Paris, where he knows the angel needs space, where the angel is nursing a broken heart with crêpes, fine wine, and ghosts of old friends within statues and paintings.

 ~~or hitting up every gay bar in the city but Crowley refuses to think about that~~ ))

He drives throughout England, seeking a comfortable distance of just-far-enough-away from the hustle and bustle of the city and peace and content of the countryside.

Eventually, he finds a lovely cottage in South Downs, not too far from the waters, with a lovely plot of land around it, big enough for a garden.

It’s almost perfect. Almost.

And just with his plants, he’ll whip it into shape until it is.

His name is on the deed and the downpayment has been deposited to its owners’ accounts and finally, Crowley gets to work.

* * *

Crowley got them a cottage. _Them._

And it’s decorated with things of _them_. There’s a sleek, modern kitchen and a veranda that houses his best plants, and a spacious office where his throne sits, and a master bedroom with an extravagant bed fitted with black, silken sheets.

And alongside it, clashing hideously, lovingly, is a massive library (larger than a cottage of this size should have) filled to the brim with his angel’s favorites and a few others Crowley knows have been missing from his collection for centuries; there’s a cluttered living room with a garish tartan quilt over the sofas; there’s a sitting room that seats a finely tuned piano and a harp that will sure to get the angel grimacing, and within a glass cabinet, a magician’s set of cards, hat, and wand.

But things of _them_ don’t exist separately; neither spaces are completely devoid of the other. Angelwing mugs are stashed within the cabinets of the kitchen, Crowley’s favorite couch is situated in the living room, the joint portrait he’d commissioned Leo of him and Aziraphale hang in his office, Crowley’s personal favorites (the “funny ones”) litter the vast library collection, alongside the harp and piano is a decades-old bass and copies of The Velvet Underground–

and a large tartan blanket sits atop the black, silken sheets of the master bedroom.

Even the damned chicken has a space of his own. A little doghouse outside and a doggy door through the kitchen; it makes itself comfortable there in the cottage as Crowley slowly perfects it, so long as it does its job of picking off pests that dared to snack on the blooming garden.

It’s a lot and perhaps too much, but Crowley knows he’s garbage at feelings and even more garbage at being _honest_ about his feelings.

More importantly than his own fear and pride, he wants Aziraphale to know that he doesn’t _want_ distance between them. That sharing his space, his _home_ with him is something that he wants. That, if Aziraphale so desired, sharing his _life_ with him is also on the table.

He hopes that’s what the cottage conveys. He hopes that’s what his angel will see.

With his preparations done, he sets back off to London.

* * *

It’s been a year since he’s seen Aziraphale now. The bookstore light is on and he can sense that ever-familiar _ethereal_ presence. When he turns off the Bentley’s engine, Crowley is torn between tripping over his own two feet to scramble through the doors and sitting down while hyperventilating in his car.

The excited squawking further punishes him into making a choice and so he opens the doors of his car and he walks inside the shop.

He really isn’t sure what he’s expecting. A new haircut? Old waistcoat and jacket foregone for some avant-garde monstrosity of Parisian couture? A tattoo of a one-night’s lover’s name on the angel’s skin?

Instead, Aziraphale sits there heartwarmingly and heartlurchingly unchanged, inspecting his books with a miffed and puzzled expression.

So focused was he with his missing favorites that he barely greets Crowley with a “Hello” and instead pins him with a question of “Did you borrow my signed copy of Les Proféties?”

Crowley thinks of brushing off the comment, but the blasted chicken started up its warning-clucks. Instead, he shrugs. “Guilty.”

For the first time in a year, Aziraphale turns to face him and Crowley’s knees almost buckle at how much he misses that annoyed expression in those stormy blue eyes. “And would you like to tell me why?”

Instead, Crowley crosses the distance between them and wordlessly asks for his hand. “Found a better place for it.”

There’s a tired, guarded look on Aziraphale’s face, but he relents with resignation and takes Crowley’s hand in his own.

* * *

The drive over is fraught with tension. Crowley wants to ask how Paris was—what he did there, if he _figured things out_ and if those things he figured out involved him _forgetting_ about Crowley and these godawful feelings he has for a lousy demon that doesn’t deserve them anyways—

But he knew he wouldn’t like the answer. He also knows that Aziraphale would draw all the wrong conclusions if he knew Crowley had known where he’d been all along and did absolutely nothing to bring him home.

So instead he lets Queen blast away on the stereo and looks balefully at the chicken lovingly nuzzling at Aziraphale’s stomach as it made itself comfortable on his lap.

Aziraphale breaks the silence by asking how Crowely was and what he’d been doing since the last he’d seen him. In some (many) ways, Aziraphale is the braver between the two of them.

Crowley, in many ways, is a coward. He doesn’t know how to answer so he merely says, “You’ll find out.” Those words were the closest to praying he’d come in over 6,000 years.

* * *

When Aziraphale sees the cottage, sees the living room, the library, the office, and garden, he understands. Crowley knows this as he offers him the keys, an angelwing keychain attached to it and says, offers, and begs, “Only if you want.”

Crowley suddenly finds himself with an armful of angel and he loves it. He strokes the soft, downy curls of Aziraphale’s hair and murmurs apologies he didn’t know he could voice.

Aziraphale, nuzzling his now-wet shoulder, says he’s sorry too.

They share a kiss that should have happened a year and a month ago, a century ago, a millennium or 6 ago—

And for the first time in over a year, there are no squawks to be heard.

* * *

The chicken’s miraculously gone the next morning. Aziraphale’s heartbroken but not nearly as much as Crowley– that bloody chicken has been his companion for that lonely year after all.

Crowley still wonders if it was some kind of trick from downstairs. Surely, it was no ordinary thing with feathers. 

He gets his answer in the form of a dove. 

It appears on a low branch of an apple tree Crowley is growing in their garden. It looks pointedly at him and then turns its gaze to Aziraphale in the kitchen who is baking a sweet-smelling something with a happy look on his face.

It chirps at Crowley as if to say, _Finally,_

and flies off to other skies.


End file.
